Love is a question mark that starts with its
initial inquiry upwards
launching and
lifting off and
gaining ground for a moment because
you think you know the answer but then it peaks and
pinnacles and
hangs in the air
which is an illusion because it immediately slopes down and
plunges as you
talk a circle around the subject and finally fall
straight down into confusion
not quite knowing
what it is or
what to do and
the dot at the end with a period is
the actual question as
a bottomless pit of punctuation but
there is a point to all of this

What is love?

I don't believe the people I see and the strangers I meet even enjoy the fact that I breathe, through their greedy eyes all they see is a worthless carbon dioxide expelling oxygen stealing machine that's wasting precious space they reserved for themselves or at least another somebody they feel is free, which can't be me because I'm sitting here absorbing their stares and soaking up their thoughts that I can actually hear audibly as a scream shouting 'Leave! Leave! Run! Flee!'
So I do, I take off in a sprint in the other direction where more eyes glare pair by pair flooding me with despair leaving me choking for air, the same air that blows my hair but belongs to them so I hold my breath for blue cheeks to make sure I'm being fair, I wouldn't want to presume upon them or assume they're willing to share because clearly they don't want me here, and they didn't want me there
'Leave! Leave! Run! Flee!'
It's ringing in my skull now, the words bouncing around like a basketball rebound, a round rubber reflection in motion thumping against my temple repeatedly, and I obey what they say because I think maybe this time I'll find a way out of here and arrive in the company of those that don't envy that which they can't see and will truly let me be calm and breathe.
'Leave! Leave! Run! Flee!'
With history repeating itself time and time again I'm gone and going and I keep performing the same actions expecting different results which I'm sure is the definition of insanity, but it's all I've ever known and it has worked a time or two for a couple of memories here or there, ultimately temporary just waiting for the next event that has me on my feet and running again.
'Leave! Leave! Run! Flee!'
Who's coming with me?

Nobody, always the same thing, so here goes nothing, maybe that will bring me something
'Leave! Leave! Run! Flee!'

if there is any truth to
time healing all things
then how many years does it take to coagulate this pain and
dry it up with a scar there to remain so
I will have forgiven but
never forgotten
what it was that happened?

It's been hundreds of hours and
millions of minutes and
countless seconds since but
regardless it's still vivid

the colors are brighter
the sounds louder
the struggle longer and
the guilt greater

there were long stretches where
I completely forgot
I put a band aid over it that
matched my skin and
it blended in so well
until the edges start to
turn red from the
open wound beneath
that flows steadily and
it all comes flooding back to me
a plague upon my memory

maybe at one point
this sore was getting better but
like a little kid I picked at the scab and
any progress that was made
was all lost and
I'm right back where I started with ****** elbows and
scraped knees
just
remembering
remembering
remembering

so I can't wait for this
blister to birth me a scar
it will be a defect on my actions and
a blemish that drives my motions
flaws hurt but they show the world why sometimes beauty comes as a slash across your entire life and

I find it attractive

That morning came
The same as any other
A kiss and a hug
From daughter to mother
A departing smile
As she turned the corner
Unknowing this day would change everything and
Carry her away

A bird of prey
Swept down with eagle eyes and
Grabbed her and led her astray
Leaving loved ones lost
They hope and pray
For her safety in searching
Always in their hearts she will stay

A simple stroll
A routine walk to school
An innocent young girl
A bright spot in a dark world
She shines so beautiful

Her star was taken
A gentle twinkle
She shimmered in the night
But blinked out in an instant
A cloud formed to
Block her from the sky
A blanket of grey in an
Unfair display of evil incarnate that Brought hurt and pain

An entire community cannot comprehend
How can this happen?
With such malice and confusion
How can we continue to function?
A society filled with tragedy
Ongoing sorrow is sickening
Family and friends gather together
To support each other
With comforting words and
Violet flowers

That mourning came
Our worst fears realized
Our feelings and emotions paralyzed
This can't be real we say
Who could steal her away?

Her love is pure
A little angel
She did not deserve
To have her wings clipped or
Her soul hushed
But her spirit lives on forever

The villain of our beloved victim
Will cower and run and hide
But we will never stop until we find
The one who so suddenly shook our lives

We must remember the joy she gave
We must have faith the one responsible will be found
We must hold on tight to love and
Know she looks down on us now From above

Now we wait to join her once again
When we will embrace her in heaven
We can still feel her life within us
The memory of her laughter
Will echo in our minds
Until our own hereafter

I hope one day, and I know this day will come because I'll make sure of it, but I hope one day my sins become visual and cover the walls of a cabin far in the woods, and all my bad deeds will be residual and my soul will be attached to, but not trapped, there. People will come to visit only once or twice a year, but when they do, I'll make the ******* most of it. I'll stay subtle and silent, with gradual motions like a faucet turning on or a door closing in an empty room, and the living visitors will think 'how strange', but it's not strange, what's strange is I've waited for this opportunity hours on end in an afterlife limbo where I'm not entirely dead, but was I ever really completely alive? Here I'm still bound by time and space, and I could go on to forever, but I choose instead to make banging sounds on worldly walls and cause men to be macho and insist this house and these woods are not haunted, but the goosebumps on your girlfriends arms say otherwise, and so do I. But why do I waste my time? Yes, time, here it is again, and therein lies the answer to my question. Time. I have it, I posses it like fingernails or hair and watch it grow to indicate its ongoing forward crawl. Time with its mouthful of gnashing teeth that grind and grind and grind but never wear thin and toothless like a homeless man who humbly smiles at a passing stranger even though they scoff at his politically incorrect poverty, the teeth chomp constantly and rhythmically reminding him and all of us that we cannot escape it, not even in death. So I use this purgatory I've chosen to bother anonymous teenagers who come from far away to these mountains with a lust for adventure and in turn find themselves wondering what these sounds are they keep hearing and why the tv turns itself on and off and the channels change without warning.  I'm telling them 'hey, just because you can't see me doesn't mean I'm not here', and it's not fear from them I want, only for them to understand that an invisible man is handcuffed here and has no hurry to get to hell. I'm just a phantom holding you ransom with my hardship, light the fireplace and I'll help you feel it.

Fresh from the lathe
Your bedpost pillar stands
In support of the canopy above

A quarter of the strength needed to Elevate You upwards from the
Floor below

A wooden column polished and
Created to collect
Hurt souls in notches

A monumental mast to be
Molded by martyred men
Out of love for You
-•-

So it begins
It's first nick comes as
A scar that dents the fine finish
An eyesore incision

The same as trash to treasure
One mans pain becomes
Your pleasure portrayed as
A slash across the room

Etched so deeply
The engraving as an epitaph for
A damaged embrace of failed love

With chisel in hand
You prepare Yourself to
Chop and hack Your way
Through honest men's lives

Consuming all in a
Sculpting effort to find what
You are truly looking for

Unknowing Your actions are a
Mere aimless diversion from
Living and existing as
Your own shallow self
-•-

This is just the start
As more come and go
Loving hearts are carved in
One by one and staked down to
Your ground

Chipping and scratching away
Bits of wooden passion
Fall in flakes and splinters that
Gather to cover the carpet

With good looks and a shiny smile
The gaps in Your picket post grow
Gashes that grind down and
Gnaw away with sharp selfish teeth

These grooves are reflective of
Your own emotion
But You refuse to let Yourself
Slow the pace until
You have reduced this
Upright support to a skinny stick

Your bedstead now an homage to Constantly diminishing attempts to
Shape Your life in love
-•-

When will You be satisfied that
It's finally been cut down to size?

Each slice doesn't change the score
Every sliver shaved away leaves Your heart
Your will
Raw and sore

Trimming little by little
Allowing hearts to crumble
A work of art You've whittled in a
Destructive stumble through
Crushed people

The indentions You've made
Are what have disintegrated
Your shame

You've let them erode
Eat and wear away
Weaken and grind down
Your heart and souls true desire to
Devote Yourself to
Just one man who will stay

You thought You could never align
With a single indent for all time

Now do You would realize that
You should have waited to
Watch what You'd been
Creating all along?

The bed has collapsed
Your bedpost is now
A jewelry box
-•-

Kneeling in reverence
Apprehensively opening the lid to
Reveal its contents

You find nothing except emptiness
The same as the
Company of the room You're in

No more places to tally tick marks
No more hearts left to hurt
No more bodies remain to
Cut and burn

Let the leaning sleep and the
Loneliness serve as a
Reminder of Your reckless abandon

No ring will ever reside in Your box
Your finger will be bare forever

As punishment for Your
Torment and misery
Anguish and agony
Sadness and suffering in
Perpetual heartache

A box from a bedpost
                 </3

Relentless residual resentment
Anger plaguing me
I'm always meeting the wrong people
It keeps happening
They take advantage of me

I hate those that hurt
It should have been them first
No one ever really gets what they deserve

My knuckles should be permanently bruised
Because what they do makes me abuse myself
If I can't hit You I'll strike everything else

If my lungs won't spit fire
I'll write it down and spell it out
I hope it's enough to make them burn and
Put my own flames out